Death, you have wounded with your dart
the father of joy
in unfurling your standard
over Binchois, that paragon of goodness.
Rhetoric, God be my witness,
has lamented her servant.
Music, with a piteous expression,
mourns and has dressed herself in black.
In his youth he was a soldier
of honourable estate.
Then he chose the better part,
serving God with humility.

His body is mourned and lamented,
which lies beneath his tombstone.
Alas, may it please you, in mercy,
to pray for his soul.
Weep, whoever is of good will,
weep for your university,
pray for his soul.
He was such a Christian
that his name lives in fame
and Fame willingly attends him.
Pray for his soul!